Syed Mujtaba Ali
HOME AND ABROAD, DESHEY BIDHESHEY
Translated and Edited by Siddique Mahmudur Rahman
Chapter – Eight
I completed my journey of Khyber Pass mixed with pain and pleasure and hoped now the temperature will subside. It receded alright, but inside the Pass the road was metallic, whether it was a narrow one. Now there’s nothing called road. After thousands of years of journey of caravans a rough path was formed on the rugged surface, now the bus is moving through that graveled path. The caravan don’t find difficulty in moving through this path, but how troublesome it is to the passengers of the bus, than only can be compared to the journey through the path of danga and khoai area of Birbhum and Bankura at night on a bullock-cart- if only the cart runs twenty miles speed and do not have thick blanket under your back, and the entire path is covered with gravel.
Ahmad Ali had wound up a giant ten-yard long pagri on my head. During the journey of Khyber pass it helped me from excessive heat, now it is protecting as a buffer in bumping my head with the roof of the bus. I asked the Sardarjee what else these pagri are helpful to. He thought a few moments and said, ‘There are many other way these pagris are useful. At present I can recollect only one, one don’t need anything else except a pitcher for committing suicide, one do not need to buy a rope.’
I understood, the condition of the road, excessive temperature and lack of proper food and drink made Sardarjee, a regular traveler of this road, exhausted. He shouldn’t have thought such a ghastly alternative.
I pitied him. He is nearing sixty, he should have enjoyed his retired life in a village, resting under a tamarind tree, surrounded by his grandchildren, will be reminiscing his life in the army, but now he is shuttling between Peshawar and Kabul1 I couldn’t make out why he is facing such ordeal. I didn’t dared to speak about these matter, due to the condition of time, space and person.
What a country! There are miles and miles of stones and gravels strewn all over. Where there are no pebbles and gravels, there are only hills of uncountable numbers. I couldn’t tell from this far, but I presumed after thousands of years incessant sunshine and heat there couldn’t be any green left. The bus stopped a few minutes to pour water in the radiator, I glanced closely and saw not a single blade of grass came out of these graveled land. I didn’t find any insect, or any living creature in this frightening region- they will have almost nothing to eat, how could they survive! Milk of Mother Earth’s bosom has dried up completely in this region. There’s not a single gash, a crack, through which a drop of water would come out. Through this immense vastness of crematorium this ghoul armoured Ford four-wheeled moving giant is proceeding, carrying a bunch of dappled human beings inside its belly. Time and again I thought, concealed guards of the horizon-engulfing immense silence of the area suddenly would lift up this fume-emitting self-moving-vehicle and make this giant silence-filled holy place non-interrupting silent again.
Suddenly I saw a horrible scene of death. The Nature never creates life in this ghastly place, it do not even abstain from taking one’s life. On the road lies a big corpse of a camel. As no vultures, jackals or foxes visit this place in fear of death, this corpse did nor disintegrated into pieces and turned into dust, the body remained intact and due to dry sun rays the skin and flesh were dried up and turned into dust and the skeleton remained intact as if kept in the museum as a material of study for the scientists.
The distance between Landikotal to Dakka is ten miles.
In the desert place the Dakka Fort seemed to me absolutely unnecessary. The walls were built up by batting mixed mud and straw. The colour mingled with the colour of the environment, dull, dirty, repulsive yellow. On the top, there are a series of holes; the inhabitants of the fort can shoot at the outside opponents safely from behind those holes. Looking at those holes, it seemed to me, those are holes of extracted eyeballs of the blind person.
But, when I turned my eyes left of the fort, my eyes calmed down. The Kabul River is flowing gently beside the fort. A green piece of land lies beside it. The small part of soil that has become fertilized by the river water are producing crops. I stared with disbelief; my eyes were soothed by the Kabul River with a soft, damp green piece of cloth. I thought my eyes were saved due to this small piece of green patch of land. If not, I would have become another blind-eyed Dakka fort.
The Kabuli gentleman said, ‘Let’s go inside the fort. We are government officials, they will spare us quickly. Then we can reach Jalalabad before evening.’
The officer of the fort honoured me a lot as being a foreigner. There’s no ice-producing plant nearby, but the serbet[1] he served me, was so cool, that I couldn’t make out how simple earthen pots could cool the water so much?
The officer was really a gentleman. Looking at my fatigued condition said, ‘You take a rest here with us tonight. I will arrange your journey tomorrow to Kabul in another bus.’
I thanked him a lot and said I will face the fate of the others travelling with this bus.’
The officer is an educated person. He read a lot, but didn’t find anybody to share his feelings. He started to pour down his intellect finding me an ardent listener. He recited many verses from Hafiz and Saadi and explicated some of his feelings he developed residing lonely in this deserted place. I asked him with my dilapidated Persian, whether he feels his life unbearable here in this place. He said, ‘My service belongs to armed forces. I couldn’t resign. I live with this Kabul River flowing outside this fort. In the evening I sit beside the river and think this river is flowing beside this barren fort only for me. Other who come near the river, comes here to soothe their body. I too come here to appease me, but I don’t stop coming near it even in winter. Earlier, I was selfish, Kabul River was a thing of enjoyment. I used to hear its melody, see it dance and used to sit beside her green carpeted bank. Now we have developed a new relationship. Now tell me, when at new-moon, when it is absolutely dark everywhere, have you went close to the river, heard its songs?’
I said, ‘Yes. I passed many a nights lying on the boat while crossing at night.’
He said with passion, ‘Then you will know. Haven’t you felt, a few more days, as if, when you are more adapted, you can recognize the sense of that enthralling language? Do you think I have become sensitive? For God’s sake, no. I think, as rumble of the cloud, brings fear of thunder in the heart of the creatures, the ripples of the river kindles lights of hope. I do not know whether the songs of hope comes up from the ocean, or coming down from the snows of the peak of the mountain.’
Now it’s summer. When it is winter, when you will in a leave, then come to a visit. I will let you know many secret dialogues of the river. Do you think there will be problem about food? Don’t you worry. You will get ample of fowl and mutton. But forget about vegetable!’
When the officer was talking, I suspected that staying here in a friendless atmosphere the gentleman might have developed some mental problem, but as he rode the horse leaving the dear earth, I resolved that he is a sane person.
He said, ‘I check passports and see whether no illegal products do not enter the country. It’s not very critical job, you see. The new Badshah is working hard to make Afghanistan hale and hearty. Many people have gathered around him. I hear, Kabul is throbbing with life. But there is English goat on one side and Russian sheep on the other. Both of them will make the country barren again if they get opportunity. We’re lucky, that we have God gifted high walls of mountains around us. We are also lucky, because the goat and the sheep do not develop intimacy. If the sheep cast its eye on the grass, then the sheep tries to jump beyond Amudariya. And when the sheep’s attitude seems different then the goat bleats to tell everybody that sheep is not lusting for only the grass of Afghanistan, but also for entire grasslands of India, China and Iran.’
I asked, ‘Why should the goat only bleat? It has a beautiful pair of horns.’
‘Id had. Hindustan still thinks it has, but those have become dull, while striking on the rocky surface of Afghanistan. Most probably, for that, they adorn those with gold- don’t you see the grandeur of White soldiers? Looking at the stateliness of those golden blunt horns, Hindustan fear the most. But Saad Jaglul Pasha of Egypt, Mustafa Kamal Pasha of Turkey, Ibn Saud of Hizaz and Amanullah of Afghanistan thrashed the beast, on a few occasions. But no animal is pacified so easily. It’s a beast, you know.’
I gasped. What a sedition! No, it’s not that. I forgot I am standing on a free country, Afghanistan.
The officer went on saying, ‘It is a matter of great happiness that the people of India has extended their hands to work with us. But you have to face an ordeal. Kabul is a tough place.. The city have stones all around, the people have stony heart inside. The Shahanshah wants to plant grasses on the clefts and invited you to irrigate them.’
I balked and said, ‘Do not embarrass me. My duty is trifling.’
The officer said, ‘Its account will be made in later years. Today I am happy that so long the people of Peshawar and Punjab used to move toward Kabul, now our invitation also reached Bengal.’
I noticed the Sardarjee is beckoning at me, everything is ready- the bus will move on as soon I board the bus.
The officer saw the Sardarjee too and said, ‘Are you then going on Amar Singh Bulani’s bus? There’s no other driver so efficient technician in machinery and driver in this route. There is not a single bus which did not have his caring. If there is any disorderly bus in this route, then the last treatment would be, one should open its bonnet and say, doctor Amar Singh have been informed. You do not have to wait a bit. Without the self-starter or winding the handle, the bus will run at full speed. The driver has to jump up to his seat with great difficulty. ‘
But always you will see that Amar Singh is driving the most trashy bus of the route. Do you want to see an interesting thing?’
Saying so he called Amar Singh near him and said, ‘Sardarjee, I have bought a brand new car. It is coming straight from America. Will you drive it? You will get the same salary you’re getting now.’
Looking at the officer Sardarjee came near him and saluted him smiling. But soon he heard the officer he became gloomy. He lowered his eyes and taking up the tail of his pagri, he went on twisting it. Then he said, ‘It would be my great pleasure to drive your car, Sir, but my contract hasn’t ended yet.’
The officer said, ‘Is it? Oh, it is a matter of regret. Let me know when it expires. Ok, I’m sending this eminent person now.’
Then he looked at me and said, ‘Just see. Contact is a lame excuse. He does not want to drive a new car. Nobody in this route will dare to object, if I wanted a driver for my car. Amar Singh is not happy with new vehicle. If there’s not busting of tire, or there is no engine trouble, if the bonnet does not fly away, then what’s the credit of driving a car. A veil-clad woman can drive a good car.’
‘Do you know what is in my mind? He has lost his wife. When he opens the bonet, he feels opening of a woman’s veil. There’s no excuse of opening a bonnet in a new car, you know’
I asked, ‘Why should one need an excuse to open a woman’s veil?’
‘Yes, you positively need one. Even the emperors do have. Now, listen to what Emperor Humayun of Hindustan said to Zubedi:
Tobu sadhi toma Bhikharir moto
Dekha more dite karunae
Bolo tumi, ‘rohi obogunthaner majhe
E rup dhekhate nari hae’
Trisha aar tripti majhe robe byabodhan
Orthohin e obogunthan?
Amar anondo hotes oundarja tomar
Dure rakhe kone aboron
Eki go somorlila tomae amae
Khoma dao, magi porihar;
Moromer mormo jaha tai tumi more
Jiboner Jibon amar.
– Translated from Persian by Satyandranath Datta
“Still I appeal you like a beggar
If you give audience piteously
You say, ‘I remain under the veil
I can’t show you my form.’
There’ll be gap between the thirst and satisfaction
Isn’t this veil useless?
Which coverings bifurcates
My happiness from your beauty
What kind of strife is there between you and me?
Forgive me, I disprove all avoidances;
You are to me like a heart inside the heart
You’re the existence of my life.
– Translated from Bangla by the translator
[1] soft drinks made up of sugar, lemon and nuts.